


postcards slipped under the door

by skuls



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s05e18 The Pine Bluff Variant, F/M, Season/Series 07, its a pbv sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 12:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuls/pseuds/skuls
Summary: Mulder finds his life disrupted when activity similar to the work of the New Spartans reappears nearly two years later.





	postcards slipped under the door

**Author's Note:**

> this is a pine bluff variant sequel set in season 7. i got this idea last fall for a prompt that i never actually finished. i wrote a little bit of it and more or less left it behind, and then i couldn’t stop thinking about it, so i picked it back up and finished it. 
> 
> warning up front for violence, deaths, references to major character death, and suicidal ideations.

It all starts with a postcard, because how the hell else is it going to start.

If he's being really accurate, it started two years ago when he spoke in Boston, since he got a mysterious phone call inviting him to take down the federal government. But he thought it was over two years ago. He'd thought he could leave it behind, forget about it.

Or, no, that's not true. He _tried_ to tell himself it was over. Scully had always insisted it was over. But now, he doesn't think he ever really believed it. Somehow, he always knew the New Spartans would be back.

He just always thought they'd come for him. Not her. Never her. He never really thought it'd end like this.

\---

Technically, calling them the New Spartans may be a little inaccurate. They apparently have a new name. But the flesh-eating biotoxin has shown up again, little spurts of activity up and down the East Coast. Mulder had noticed, of course, suspected that the government is up to its usual disgusting methods again, but Scully hadn't wanted him to look any further into it.

The first time he noted it was in the uneasy period between Scully's venture with the smoker and his trip to England, before things seemed to fall into place for them and everything seemed okay. She had simply fixed him with a scalding look that said everything when he told her he wanted to look into it. “Mulder, no,” she said immediately. “The last time you got mixed up in this stuff, you were almost killed. They _tortured_ you, Mulder, they almost killed you, and whatever members of that group are left… they _know_ you were a mole. If this is the same group, then digging into this could be incredibly dangerous. There's a good chance they could have held this grudge, and this is their attempt at revenge.”

If it'd been two years earlier, he might've fought back. He might've argued the point that innocent people could be dying and he might be the only one who can stop it. But the combined fear from memories of his time undercover, and fear at the thought of losing Scully (he had been angry at her, but now the anger had mostly faded into regret and apologies he didn't know how to say) was clogging his throat. He thought of the biotoxin eating away at flesh, gun metal at the back of his head, the pleading eyes of a stranger in a bank floor. The old, muted fear rose higher in his throat like bile. “This is very likely activity by _our government_ , Scully,” he said quietly. The most he could bring himself to fight. “On innocent civilians. I can't just ignore it.”

“So pass the information on.” Scully was looking at the ground, but he could see her jaw clenched anxiously. He suddenly remembered the way she had hugged him when she had brought him back to his apartment, leaning over the center console, her fingers digging desperately into his shoulders. He remembered that it was hard on her, too. “This isn't your responsibility, Mulder. You've more than paid your dues here, and you should never have to go through that again.”

Her eyes were soft, pleading; the softest they'd been since this whole ordeal with the smoker. He couldn't find it in himself to say no. He couldn't bring himself to let her down again.

So he passed it on to Skinner. Every possible inkling of activity in the news or the crimes flowing into the Bureau that sounded vaguely like the New Spartans, he passed it on. And every time he passed it on, he got no response. He didn't know if they were investigating or not, and he tried not to care. He went to England, and he came back, and Scully came into his bedroom and slipped and the covers next to him, kissed him so hard that it would've knocked him off his feet if he'd been standing up. Things gradually became okay again. They went to North Carolina, and he almost died from tobacco beetles burrowing into his throat, and Scully stayed in his apartment with him while he recovered, stroking his hair and laying beside him on top of the comforter with her hand in his.

And then the biotoxin appeared in a government lab. Several employees gruesomely dead, suspicions on the rise. And that was when people began to pay attention to Mulder's claims.

\---

He's gonna keep thinking about it. He's gonna play it over and over again in his head, like a wheel churning in water. It starts up again in the back of his mind, like a fucking movie he's not going to be able to turn off, and he swallows back nausea. He was hysterical last night, and he's sure he'll be hysterical tomorrow (he's cold, he can't get warm, he can almost hear Scully diagnosing him with shock), but tonight, he needs to focus.

He should've known that it would happen like this. He should've fucking known. It's his fault, just like he always suspected. His fucking mistake. The fucking New Spartans.

He drives, the fact of this situation hard and icy in his brain like a metal spike. He wants to vomit. He clenches his teeth and swallows it back and stares at the map on the seat beside him. The creased map he studied repeatedly last night before making a decision; he knows it like the back of his hand. He drives, his hands hard on the wheel, his mind solidly and singly determined. Replays the whole thing in his mind again.

\---

Scully was the one who found the postcard. She'd been at his apartment for a solid two and a half weeks, she was practically living there, and she'd gotten up to get some coffee, and she saw the postcard stuffed under the crack.

She hadn't touched it. She'd called his name warily from the living room. When he came out, she was retrieving plastic gloves from under the sink. “Scully, what is it?” he asked, confused, his hair sticking up at the back and his eyes gritty with sleep. His mind wasn't completely awake yet.

“Someone sent you a postcard,” Scully said softly, pulling the gloves on. “No, no, no—don’t touch it,” she added quickly as he drew closer. “I'm afraid it might have the biotoxin on it.”

“Why would you—” He stopped cold in his tracks when he saw it. The symbol scribbled in Sharpie over the painted image of the Liberty Bell. The one he was unfamiliar with two years ago, when it may have been important, but one that he knew now, from reading files on August Bremer, who notably dropped off the grid right after the whole ordeal was over two years ago. Bremer's symbol, the one he used to leave at crime scenes years before he supposedly created the New Spartans. Mulder had thought that Bremer was something of an ally (as much of an ally as he could be when the government was supposedly behind the biotoxin in the first place), but the symbol had popped up again, in the labs where employees turned up dead. It was practically a confirmation of Bremer's involvement. And here it was on his doorstep.

“Bremer's symbol,” Scully said grimly, picking up the postcard in her gloved fingers.

“I thought Bremer was on my side,” Mulder said, his stomach suddenly churning with nauseousness. He didn't want to do this again. “He… he saved my life.” But he was thinking of the cavalier way that Bremer betrayed him when he could've let him walk away, killed that man in the bank even after he stopped Mulder from doing it, killed Haley and the gimp without blinking.

She turned the postcard over and pinched it between two fingers. Lifted her head and gave him a gentle, comforting look with just a tinge of fear in it. “It just looks like a street address,” she said softly, holding up the postcard so he could see the scrawl. “No city, but I think it's safe to assume that they mean Philadelphia.”

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, blinking hard. “Do you think it's some kind of trap?” he asked. “Or…”

“I don't know, Mulder. I honestly don't. Will you get me a Ziploc bag?” He retrieved it from the drawer and held it open for her so she could drop the postcard in. “It could be a trap...” she said gingerly, “or it could be information that the FBI could use. It could be an actual lead.”

“You think so?” he said with surprise, sealing the top of the bag.

“Think about it,” Scully said, peeling off her gloves and dropping them into the trash can. “Your last encounter with Bremer was when he let you go. The assumption was that he was working against his own group. He could still be undercover. He could be using this to reach out, to expose them.”

Mulder stared at the postcard through the plastic. “You think they're in Philadelphia?” he asked softly.

“I think something's in Philadelphia.” Scully finished disposing of the gloves and reached out to touch his shoulder. “I think we should pass this on immediately,” she added. “Your involvement doesn't necessarily have to go further than that.”

He was still looking at the postcard, feeling the slight weight of it dangling from his fingers. Thinking about that bank robbery, the man he was ordered to kill fearful and bleeding on the carpet in the last few moments of his life; the bone in his finger snapping like a twig, black fabric and stale air and the white-hot pain; gun metal grazing his ear and the gunshot not meant for him; the terror of hearing Scully's voice on that tape, thinking that they'd kill him and go for her. The innocent people who died painfully, the more that might still die. “Yeah,” he said, his fingers numb, his hands cold with sweat. “Yeah, I'll call Skinner.”

\---

It didn't end at giving the postcard to Skinner. They had to take it to the lab to examine it, and Mulder and Scully had to explain their theory to Skinner, and then again to the leaders of the task force created to track down whoever used the biotoxin against the government employees, and then Mulder had to recount his time undercover to the task force. It went on and on until they finally conceded, finally agreed to send agents to the address in Philadelphia—apparently it was a warehouse, which would make sense for a home base or a storage facility of some kind—to check it out. But they weren't going to let Mulder go with them.

Scully looked astonished, at first, when he said he wanted to go, but she hid it well. He explained it over and over again—he knew the New Spartans, or whatever their name was now, better than anyone on that task force, he had firsthand fucking experience; it was him who Bremer supposedly wanted to contact, so it must be him who they wanted to come to the warehouse.

“And that's exactly why we can't let you go,” Skinner said in a hard voice. “Mulder, if they're gunning for you, we'd be playing right into it. We don't truly know Bremer's allegiance, or why he let you go in ‘98. It's too much of a risk to you and to the task force to let you go.”

He looked at Scully immediately, and she was nodding along. “It's too dangerous,” she said. “We still have no idea if that postcard had biotoxin on it or not, much less _why_ Bremer sent it to you. If he's looking to hurt you somehow, it'd probably be in everyone's best interest if you weren't there.”

He looked between them helplessly—helpless to argue, after what he'd been through; helpless not to argue, when he knew what they were capable of. For some reason, Bremer had contacted him. For all he knew, he was all that was standing in between that biotoxin and innocent civilians. Was it possible that some of the men still carried grudges against him, that Haley had died but he'd gone free? He had thought the group was gone.

“You can work the case from here, Mulder,” Skinner said, a little kinder this time. “And Agent Scully can go to Philadelphia.”

He looked between them again, this time in disbelief, but Scully was nodding at that, too. “They don't know who I am,” she said. “But I've had… more access to your side of things than most people, as your partner. It makes sense.”

He wanted to protest that these people operated dirty and it was dangerous, but there were other people going, too. He wanted to insist that he wouldn't let her go alone, that they were partners and he was supposed to have her back and he fucking hated it when they did shit like this. “Sir, I can be more of an asset in the field,” he said quietly. “I can recognize their traps. I _was_ this group, once.”

“You're too close to this case, Mulder,” said Skinner. “That's the end of it. We'll make sure you have active communication with the task force in Philadelphia.”

He should've argued. That's what he kept thinking, that he should've argued harder. It would've pissed Scully off, but he doesn't care about that. He'd do anything to have her pissed off and _here,_ instead of the other way around.

But he didn't. Scully reached out and squeezed his arm comfortingly as they discussed details, right in front of Skinner, and he found he couldn't argue. Scully could take care of herself, he reminded himself; Scully could probably manage to stop whatever their plan is. He didn't want to let her go alone, but he knew neither one of them would budge. So he went along with it, even as nervousness ate away at him. He really had thought this was over.

\---

They went down to their office in the space before the briefing. They were quiet on the walk to the elevator, standing shoulder to shoulder as they stepped inside, but as soon as the door closed, Scully's hand was on his back gently. “You okay?” she murmured, her voice soft with concern.

He worked his jaw back and forth, nodded carefully. “I… I really did think this all was over,” he said quietly. “And I never thought that… that I'd be sending _you_ into the midst of it.”

He'd expected her to be angry that he was being protective, but her eyes softened as much as her voice. “You're not sending me,” she murmured. “I’m choosing to go. I want to end this, for you, and for everyone else that has been hurt by them.”

He exhaled deeply, his shoulders drooping. The elevator beeped, and the doors slid open as they reached the basement. “I wish I was going with you,” he whispered.

She rose on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, even as the doors slid closed again. “I'm glad you're not,” she said softly. “I saw what they did to you the first time; I don't want to give them the chance to do it again.”

That was the reason he didn't want her to go. He thought involuntarily of the gun at the back of his head, of Scully's cool fingers on his injured hand in the dark. He kissed the top of her head, holding her tight. “Be careful,” he mumbled into her hair, and she nodded. She squeezed him hard before slipping out of his embrace, pressing the Door Open button.

In the office, they gathered the file Mulder had put together on the New Spartans, which was really just photocopies of the information from the official New Spartans file, aside from some information that Mulder and Scully had added themselves. Scully gave him a small smile over the pile of files; he could see some mix of worry and affection in her eyes, reassurance.

He should be going instead of her, he had thought, over and over again; it was his case and his responsibility, and they had sent the postcard to _him_. It's what he'd thought then, and it's what he thinks now. It should've been him. But at the time, somehow, he was able to reassure himself that it'd be okay.

At the briefing, someone else was speaking about previous activity by the New Spartans. The postcard was blown up on the wall, the symbol enlarged. Mulder and Scully stood shoulder to shoulder in the back of the room, the way they usually did, until they were called up to add in their statements. Mulder summarized his experience undercover as briefly as he could, and the activity he'd been noticing, ending with the postcard. He skated over the details of Scully having found the postcard first, saying that he called her when he saw the symbol. The agents laid out the plan, and Mulder listened despite himself. He was thinking of Scully, thinking of making one last, pathetic bid to go with her; they were partners, after all. He tried to catch Skinner on the way out, and he shook his head tightly.

\---

If there's any particular part he keeps playing and replaying, it's of his goodbye with Scully before they left. His last moments with Scully, ever. It makes him sick just to think about it, and he has to swallow hard and clench his jaw just to overcome the nausea, to keep driving.

She was about to get in the van, already dressed in tactical gear and not looking the happiest about it—it was a long drive to Philly. She tipped her head up to say goodbye to him, offering him a grim smile as if to reassure him. “If things go well, I'll be back tonight,” she offered, her voice soft so that none of the other agents would hear.

He'd touched her shoulder, squeezing it gently through the gear. “Call me when you get out,” he told her. “Or as soon as you get a chance.”

“I will.” She offered him a small smile. “This is all going to be over soon. Maybe even tonight.” She reached up to touch his arm, gently, her eyes soft. And then she turned around and went to the van. He thought about calling _Be careful!_ after her again, but he didn't. He was thinking about her rule on public displays of affection, and he didn't want to embarrass her. So he just watched her go.

Now, he regrets not kissing her, not wrapping her up tight in his arms. He regrets every single thing he didn't say to her, not telling her that he loves her. Regrets not insisting that he go with her. Regrets not begging her not to go.

The images are too bright behind his eyes, of her face, her eyes, the way she looked at him. He pulls off sharply on the side of the road, buries his face in his hands, and lets himself cry.

\---

 He had tried to wait out news in the bullpen, but the wait was entirely too long, and he felt like people were watching him, wondering what he'd been through before with the New Spartans, wondering if he was up here waiting for news about his partner who he may or may not be fucking. He couldn't stand the pitying looks across the room from Skinner, so he slipped downstairs to their office and shut the door, read over the New Spartans file again and again. He couldn't figure out what was happening, why they wanted to talk to _him_. He flipped through photos of the places the symbol had been left, trying to find some kind of link, but he found nothing. Research on the address yielded nothing, either; it seemed to just be a perfectly normal, definitely abandoned warehouse. After a few hours, he trailed, restless, up to the bullpen.

He found several agents, including Skinner, crowded around a television turned to a news channel. He drew closer, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to see the screen, and his stomach seemed to drop out from beneath him when he saw the headline: _Explosion at abandoned warehouse in Philadelphia_. His breath left him, his limbs weakening, and he stumbled a few steps closer to the TV before Skinner saw him. He turned to Mulder immediately, his hands held out in some semblance of warning or comfort as he said, “Mulder, we don't have very much news yet, but we've been in touch with the leader of the task force, and he's saying that it looks like everyone got out…”

Mulder turned away, striding across the bullpen as he pulled out his cellphone with trembling hands. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest; it felt as if his ribs were splintering under the pressure. He hit 1 on his speed dial and listened to the rings, silently urging her to pick up, pick _up_ , goddamnit Scully. But nothing happened. The phone just rang and rang until it clicked emptily to indicate that she hadn't answered. He let out a painful breath, pressing his palm flatly to his furrowed forehead. He tried to tell himself that it didn't mean anything, that she was fine, but he couldn't reassure himself. His stomach was churning; he felt as if he was going to throw up.

He turned back to Skinner, crossing the room again, as he tried Scully's number again. “She isn't picking up,” he said tightly, clutching the phone too hard. Some of the other agents were staring, but he didn't care; he stared at Skinner with a pleading sort of look.

“I'm sure it's fine, Mulder, she might not even have her phone with her…” Skinner started, but the phone began ringing before he could get the thought out. It felt like the cannons signaling an execution; it seemed to cut Mulder right to the soul.

Skinner, casting a weary look over the gathered agents, picked up. “Yes,” he said tightly, indicating he knew who it was. “Oh, I'm glad to hear from you… yes. What?” His jaw seemed to be tightening. “Goddamnit,” he said softly, inflections of emotion in his voice, and Mulder knew immediately what had happened. He didn't want to know it, but he knew it.

“Are you sure?” Skinner was asking, his voice full of his own grief. “Are you _positive_? Because I want you to be fucking sure before we deal with this.” Mulder couldn't breathe. He was nearly swaying on his feet, dizzy. He started across the room, reaching for the phone, but Skinner turned away, a hand held up. “Well, once everything is under control, I'd like you to fucking figure it out,” he said evenly before hanging up. He hung up the phone, hard. He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Mulder couldn't breathe. His chest was tight, his throat was shut. He asked, so softly he could hardly believe it, “It's her, isn't it?”

Skinner rubbed his nose again, his eyes, the glasses bumping up on his forehead. He turned towards him, speaking carefully, beginning, “Mulder…”

“Was it her?” He was shouting now, his voice cracking. “Was she inside the warehouse?”

Skinner looked as if he didn't know what to say. “They… they haven't been able to find her…” he tried. “T-they… they think she was inside…”

Everything seemed to go red: a red sheen over his vision, tiny dots behind his eyes. A roaring in his ears. Everything was blank for a moment, a blank space in his mind. He shouted something. He didn't know what it was, but it made his throat hurt. The next thing he knew, he was charging at Skinner when someone caught him and held him back. Two other agents. Skinner was looking at him with some sort of acceptance, as if he'd known he would react this way. He was still shouting, his fingernails digging into the skin of the other agents, and he was finally able to make out the words; he was screaming, “Why did you send her instead of me?”

(Looking back, now, it was a nonsensical thing to shout. It wasn't Skinner's fault; Scully wouldn't have stayed back if she was told to because that wasn't the way Scully was. But still, it was the way he felt. It should've been him. He'd give anything for it to have been him.)

Skinner was shouting something too. He yelled, “I didn't have a choice, Agent Mulder!” and it sounded like he was crying. “I didn't have a fucking choice. Agent Scully would've been furious if I had sent you.”

Her name seemed to hit Mulder like a weight of bricks. He stunned away from the other agents as if he had been burned. He staggered towards the door as if he was drunk, broke into a run. He reached the bathroom just in time, hitting the ground so hard it felt as if his kneecaps cracked, and vomited hard into the toilet. He was shaking, shivering, and he was sobbing. It was hitting him, all at once, that he was never going to see her again.

He doesn't remember much more after that.

\---

Skinner, he thinks, picked him up off the floor. Skinner drove him home, and Skinner, sounding inches away from his own breakdown, offered to sit with him. He refused, unable to look him in the eye. He went upstairs and deadbolted the door and fell into a heap on his empty bed, thinking that it was inevitable that he'd lose everyone important in his life, his mother and his sister and the love of his life. He curled into a ball on the bed, around the discarded t-shirt Scully had shed this morning. Pressed his nose to the collar and inhaled her scent and tried to pretend that she was here. Dissolved into sobs again, clutching the shirt to his chest like a child's blanket and thinking, again and again, that it should've been _him_ , it should've been him. They were looking for him all along; why else had they sent him that postcard? They wanted to kill him. And he had sent her.

And he was stumbling to his feet and rushing to the bathroom, and he was retching again over the sink, dryly, shaking and shaking on the floor. He stumbled to his knees, nearly bent in two, his forehead against the cool of the porcelain. He felt as if he was splitting in two. He curled into a ball on the floor, his spine hitting the wall. He was crying again, the tears cold on his face. He stayed like that, curled into the smallest possible space, for a long time. He was thinking about Scully and thinking that maybe he shouldn't be; he was thinking about the way she looked the night before when they were falling asleep: curled on her side, over his arm that was slowly falling asleep, her hair falling across her face, her expression peaceful. He loves her so much; he loves her with everything in him. And sitting there then, scrunched up under his bathroom sink hugging his knees and sobbing so hard his throat hurt, he couldn't remember if he had ever told her.

\---

He didn't know how long he had sat there, curled up on the bathroom floor, but when he finally got up, his knees ached. He shuffled slowly into the living room, thinking almost involuntarily of his gun sitting in his office. Just sitting there in the holster. He walked through his dimly lit living room, and that was when he saw it: another postcard shoved under his door, lying peacefully on his rug.

He went to it quickly, landing so fast and hard that his knees burned. It looked strangely bulky from where it lay on the floor, as if something was taped to the back of it. _Greetings from Pennsylvania,_ it read, and the same symbol was scribbled in Sharpie over the front. Bremer's symbol.

He scooped it up immediately, cradling it in the palm of his hands, wondering too late if it had been sprayed with the biotoxin. He remembered Scully the morning before, holding up the postcard with gloved hands, and he winced. But he didn't feel any sting, any sensation that might've hinted his skin burning away. And besides that, this didn't seem important. This postcard may have come from the man who killed Scully.

He flipped it over and felt something flop away from the postcard. It was a map, he realized, folded up and taped to the back of the postcard. He yanked it off and unfolded it, smoothing out the creases. It was hard to make it out, but it looked like a map of the East Coast.

It looked like someone had outlined a route heading north from DC, into Pennsylvania, in bright red marker. Has written an address in smeared red letters, overtop a woodsy rural area drawn in green.

\---

The map is sitting in his passenger seat now. He is driving; he has been for hours. He's following the route on the map. He has no idea where it goes, but he isn't sure that he cares. He's sure of one thing: it leads to the men who killed Scully, and he is determined as hell to find them. He's not going to let them get away with it this time, with all of the dirty work they've been doing, everything they've done. He's going to end it, once and for all.

He doesn't know what happens next. He doesn't want to think about what happens next. He doesn't want to think about the next day, or the day after that, or the years and years that may hollowly follow. He has no family left; they took his mother and his father and his sister and now they have taken Scully. (Someone might point out that the New New Spartans, or whatever the hell they're calling themselves now, aren't necessarily the same as these bastards that tore his family apart, but if Bremer was government and the men who took his sister were government, then they are one and the same to him.)

Maybe he'll go to Canada. Maybe he should've gone to Canada a long time ago, but that wouldn't work, would it, because they have a hand everywhere now. Maybe he'll go to the farthest reaches of the Earth, where no one can ever find him again, because he doesn't have anyone worth staying for at this point. If he even survives any of this, that is; he's almost to the point of not caring about that anymore. It should've been him yesterday.

He drives, as the sun sinks low in the sky, as the traffic slows to the point where he is very nearly the last person on the road. He drives until he begins to see signs for the exit, the one that whoever sent him the map—Bremer, he assumes—had started. His hands almost unnaturally steady, he exits at the appropriate moment. He is thinking of whoever has done this to Scully. He is thinking of gunpowder; he can almost taste it on the back of his tongue. He exits the highway smoothly, merging onto the quiet country road. He is gritting his teeth. He is trying not to cry. He is thinking about the map and about silly revenge that Scully would undoubtedly advise him against or scold him for, and he is thinking about Scully, and his eyes are burning. He has the address memorized, lodged solidly in the back of his head, and he scans the mailboxes for it until it lands on the correct one. He checks the map again just to be sure; he's in the right place.

He parks on the side of the road and climbs out of the car. He checks for his gun in his holster, a lump beneath the tail of his shirt. He thinks of Scully once again.

He begins to trudge up the dirt road winding up past the mailbox into the woods.

\---

 It's a long walk, through a surprisingly murky heat. It's heavy and cloaking in the air, and all uphill. His back is coated in sweat. He is exhausted and grieving, his eyes wet, his limbs loose, his mind back on Scully. He thinks this is why he doesn't hear the man coming up behind him, the dead leaves and twigs underfoot, until there's a click behind his head. The click of the safety being taken off a gun. Mulder freezes in place.

“Special Agent Fox Mulder,” a voice that is a little familiar—not too terribly familiar, but a little bit—intones from behind him. “I didn't think I'd hear from you again, after you killed my friend and ran off like a yellow coward to rat us out.”

The gimp, Mulder remembers, that bastard that Bremer shot. He must've told them that Mulder was the one who killed the guy, to maintain his cover. This guy must've been one of the men they robbed the bank with. Which means that he is in the right place.

Thoughts shoot through his mind of the innocent man that died in that bank, and of that gun to his head, and of Scully, Scully gone because of them. He moves on instinct, his hand shooting towards his gun, and the man grabs his arm and shoves him forward, pushing him into a tree. He grunts in pain as the bark bites into his cheek, as his head spins. The guy twists his arm behind his back, pulling it up sharply until Mulder is whimpering in pain, and snatches the gun from his holster, tossing it into the wood where it lands with a dull thump. The guy's gun presses against the back of Mulder's head as he yanks his arm up harder. “I am very glad you came back,” he breathes in Mulder's ear, pressing the muzzle of the gun hard against his skull. “I've been waiting for this for a long time.”

Mulder tries to steady his breath, bites back another whimper. “Was… was it you?” he growls. “Are you the one that made that bomb?’

The guy laughs, yanking him away from the tree and giving him a hard shove. “Walk that way, FBI man.”

“Did you make the goddamn bomb?” Mulder snarls, trying to turn around to look at the man. He shoves Mulder again, so hard he almost falls this time. He catches himself roughly on a tree trunk. “Are you the one who fucking killed her?” he nearly bellows.

“You fucking rat,” the guy growls, grabbing Mulder's shirt in his fists and pushing him along at a slogging pace. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“There was a bomb,” Mulder says slowly, unsteadily, “that went off at a warehouse in Philadelphia yesterday. A woman was in there. Was that you, you goddamn bastard?”

He is smacked with the muzzle of the gun, on the side of his scraped, bleeding face, so hard that his head spins and he sees a rush of stars. “You got a smart mouth, you know that?” the guy snaps. “I dunno how we didn't see right fucking through you from day one.”

“Was it you?” Mulder shouts, twisting in the guy's grasp, and he gets smacked across the face again. He stumbles forward dizzily, groaning, as the guy forces him to his knees, presses the gun against his head once more, and Mulder really is going to be sick again, he doesn't want to die this way but he doesn't know what he's going to do without her. He's nearly crying, shaking with fury, and he tries to turn around to face the asshole, but he's shoved around to face forward again.

“Whether it was or it wasn't,” the guy whispers with a sort of sick fucking glee, “it feels a little fair, doesn't it? You murdered my friend. You killed him in cold blood. So if I killed your little friend… that feels a little appropriate, doesn't it?”

Mulder takes a tremulous, furious breath. He hates this man with a burning passion, and he's angry and frightened and missing Scully so much, and he tries to get to his feet again, but he's shoved back down. The knees of his jeans are brown with mud. “I'll finish what Bremer shoulda finished two years ago,” the man mutters disapprovingly. “I'll show you what we do to rats around here, Special Agent Mulder.”

Mulder shuts his eyes, shaking and shaking, thinking that he should've fucking ignored those postcards, should've ignored the recruiter who came looking for him two years ago. Here he is again with a gun to his head, just like he was two years ago. All he wants is to see Scully again, and he thinks that maybe if that gun goes off, he will. But he doesn't want her to be dead, and he doesn't think he wants to die. He shuts his eyes and bites back a sob. He never should've gotten involved. All he wants is another chance.

For a moment, he thinks he is hallucinating, because he thinks he hears Scully's voice. And then he realizes that he _is_ hearing Scully's voice—a high, panicked, “Mulder!” echoing through the trees. He opens his eyes and jerks his head to see two dark figures standing above them on a small ridge.

The guy with the gun mutters, “What the…” just as a gunshot is fired. Not by the asshole beside him. By one of the figures up on the hill. It hits the guy beside Mulder, who hits the ground with the same dull thump as the gun, and Mulder winces, scrambling away from the body without standing, without taking his eyes off of the figures on the hill. He's still quivering in place, tears in his eyes.

One is moving towards him, footsteps thudding over the dead leaves and sliding through the mud, stumbling as she approaches. As she draws closer, he can see who it is, and it's impossible, it's _impossible._ But he's always believed in impossibilities, and he sure as hell wants to believe this one.

Scully lands on her knees before him, her hands cuffed before her, reaching up awkwardly to touch his face. “Mulder?” she whispers nervously, her fingers hovering over the scrapes and bruises on the side of his face. “Are you okay?”

He can't breathe. His ribs have shrunk, everything is too tight. He cannot believe she's here. “Scully?” he murmurs, and she nods, her eyes full of tears. She lifts her cuffed hands and loops them around his neck in a makeshift hug; he wraps his arms around her tightly, tugging her into his lap, and presses his face into the side of her neck. “Oh my god,” he gasps, biting back sobs, his nose pressed to her pulse point. “Oh my _god_.” She is _alive_ , she is alive. He presses a tender kiss to the side of her neck, under her jaw.

“I'm so sorry,” she chokes out. He draws back in astonishment and looks at her; her face is sheet-white and full of guilt.

“ _Sorry_?” He ducks out of the circle of her arms, reaching out to push hair behind her ear. His vision is blurry with tears; he smiles shakily, pressing a hand to her cheek. “Scully, what the hell do you—”

“This is all very touching, Agent Mulder,” a voice says solemnly from behind them, “but I'm afraid we have some business.” The second figure has approached them, and Mulder can tell who it is now: August Bremer. He is standing over the two of them, his hands folded over his chest, and Mulder is suddenly reminded of the moment when he killed the gimp, just like this. Just like now. Scully is tense next to him, poised protectively on the ground.

“Did you do this?” Mulder snaps, a hand on Scully's shoulder. “Did you do—what the fuck is this, why the fuck do you have her cuffed?”

“You should be grateful, Agent Mulder,” he says solemnly, taking Scully by the arm and pulling her to her feet.

She swipes at her eyes, her face taking on a stony expression as she stumbles in place; Mulder gets to his feet and draws close to her in an instinctive, protective manner, a hand on her elbow as they step back from Bremer nearly in unison. His voice tinged with anger, still quivering with the tumult of emotions, he replies stiffly, “And why is that?”

“I've very likely saved both of your lives,” Bremer says, his expression blank.

It's tempting to trust him, considering the fact that he's saved Mulder's life twice now and apparently has kept Scully safe, but Mulder isn't ready to be that kind of trusting, not with Bremer. He's killed before without hesitation—the civilian in the bank, two of his own men, Haley and probably the people at the movie theater in Ohio. He told Haley that Mulder was working for the Feds without a second thought, even though they were apparently on the same side, and whatever's happening with Scully, she doesn't exactly seem to be with Bremer of her own free will. He's not very trusting of Bremer at the moment, all things considered. He draws closer to Scully and snaps, “How the _hell_ have you saved our lives? From what it looks like to me, you put a bomb at the location you tried to lure me to and almost killed my partner! And now you've lured me here only to have a fucking gun put to my head?”

“Mulder…” Scully murmurs cautiously.

“If you'll remember, I just shot the man who was trying to kill you,” Bremer says coldly. “And I never intended for you to die in the bombing. Others certainly did, but I didn't. That was why I took your partner from the site. I desperately needed to talk to you, and I believed that was the best way to get your attention, by making your partner go missing.”

“You motherfucking _bastard_ ,” Mulder hisses.

“There is a hit out on you, Mr. Mulder. Many people who want you dead for trying to expose our activity. For the same reason those people died in a government lab.” Bremer's eyes narrow, looking them both over. “Our work has shifted in the past few years, Mr. Mulder, but our goal is essentially the same. We've been attempting to mobilize the biotoxin I know you're familiar with. To weaponize it further, essentially, and learn how to make it airborne. We'd been testing it, as I'm sure you guessed, in small waves up and down the East Coast. But one of the drones employed in the labs doing our work in changed his mind. Decided the work wasn't moral enough for him.” Bremer smiles wolfishly. “Do you understand what happened next, Mr. Mulder?”

He understands all too well. He squeezes Scully's elbow, her shoulder bumping against the side of his chest. His heart is pounding too fast, his head aching with fury.

“Once that was over with,” Bremer continues, “my superiors decided on damage control. And considering the whispers about a certain former member who was recognizing our activity and making reports to the FBI… your name made the short list, Mr. Mulder.”

Scully seems to stiffen at this, going rigid next to him. He still can't believe she's here, that she's okay, and all he wants is to get her out of here. To get out of here himself. He's annoyed with the entire thing, his anger thick in his throat. “Guess I win a medal then, huh?” he snaps. “So why am I not dead yet?”

“ _Mulder_ ,” Scully whispers chidingly, taking a wobbling step closer to him. He rubs a thumb over her arm, resists the urge to hug her again. His eyes are still hurting from all of the crying he has done; his heart is still pounding too hard.

“You're not dead yet, Mr. Mulder, because I believe you might be an asset to us,” Bremer says simply. “The same way you were an asset earlier, even unintentionally.”

“How the hell could I have been a goddamn asset? I was a _mole_!”

“Put in place by one of my superiors.” Bremer grins dryly. “You weren't a mole, you were a pawn. And I believed you were more valuable alive than dead, whether it was a willing usefulness or not.”

“Go to hell,” Scully snaps, squaring her shoulders, standing nearly in front of him.

Bremer shrugs. “My intention was to fake your death in the bombing, but I think saving your partner gave me an even greater advantage. It got you here.”

“You're insane if you think I'll help you, after everything,” he says coldly. “My partner and I are going home.”

“You're insane,” Bremer says slowly, and lifts the corner of his shirt to reveal the butt of his gun, “if you think I'm giving you a choice.”

Scully's elbow presses into mulder's stomach as she steps even closer to him, her jaw set in a hard line. Bremer lets his shirt drop, crossing his arms. “We're at war, Mr. Mulder. I am giving you the chance to save yourself, _and_ to save your partner. With what she knows, there is no way they will let her live.”

Mulder winces on instinct at that. He's already lost her so many times; last night, he'd thought he had lost her for good. He won't risk losing her again. She is standing right there, stiff and determined and protective despite the handcuffs, the bruises on her wrists and the small burns on her arms and face, the way she'd looked after Ruskin Dam. She must have been close to the explosion. He thinks that he would do anything for her, to keep her safe; he had thought he would never see her again.

He says, unflinchingly, “I'll stay.” Scully turns to him in astonishment, but he doesn't look at her. He's looking at Bremer. “I'll stay,” he says slowly, “if you let Scully go.”

“ _Mulder_ ,” Scully hisses, shaking her head.

“You heard me before, didn't you?” Bremer says with amusement. “They'll kill her, too. They'll kill her if they find out she's alive.”

“You can't keep her here!” Mulder shouts, his fingers cradling the delicate bones of her elbow.

“I _can_ keep her here.”

“Mulder, don't do this,” Scully whispers. “Please. Please don't do this.”

“Let her go,” Mulder says again. “If you want anything from me, you need to let her go. She has a _life_ , and people think she is dead. Do you know what this is doing to her family?” His voice breaks as he speaks. Scully shakes her head, turning slightly to look at him. Her eyes are wide and pleading.

“Do you think I care?” Bremer asks coldly. “You're not in a position to be making requests. I've saved your life twice now, Mr. Mulder. _You_ owe _me_. The both of you do.”

“Look, I am _not_ going to let you…” he starts, but breaks it off when he sees someone moving through the trees. Someone standing on the ridge above them, moving through the woods. He freezes immediately, his heart pounding; Bremer clearly doesn't want him or Scully dead, but there is no indication that the other people here don't. He steps even closer to Scully, her shoulder bumping against his chest again. She looks at him again, nervousness and anger, meant for Bremer, mixing in her eyes.

“What… what the hell is going on?” Bremer snaps, noticing his uneasiness. “Is there someone…” He starts to turn around.

“Freeze!” a voice bellows from the ridge, and Mulder sees the figure on the hill raise a gun. “Hands in the air. August Bremer, you're under arrest.”

Mulder gasps out a sigh of relief, his hands on Scully's shoulders now as the agent stumbles down the hall towards Bremer, his gun aimed. Bremer is looking at him with something like admiration or shock. “So you really were a mole this time,” he says softly, as if impressed. “You realize that this will put an even bigger target on your back.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Scully says fiercely over her shoulder.

Mulder hadn't been involved in this, actually, he has no idea what they're doing here, but he doesn't care. “Handcuff key, he has a handcuff key,” he blurts to the agent cuffing Bremer and taking his weapon. He grabs Scully's hands almost earnestly. “We need that over here!”

“Mulder…” Scully whispers, her eyes watery and wide. He wraps his arms tightly around her, and she clutches at his shirt tightly. “Mulder, I'm so sorry,” she whispers, and he draws back to look at her in astonishment.

The agent tosses him the keys to the cuffs, and he fumbles to unlock them. “Scully,” he whispers, nearly stammering, “Scully, what are you talking about? What are you sorry for?”

She clenches her jaw to steady her chin, shakes her wrists hard as they're freed. “I tried to call you,” she says, “to… to tell you I was okay. I really wanted to call you.”

Her words hit him straight in the chest as he realizes what she is saying. That she is harkening back to an argument they had months ago, over her trip with the smoker, and he is so astonished he sways a little on his feet. “Scully…” he whispers.

“Bremer wouldn't let me. I swear, I insisted I needed to call you as soon as I figured out what happened… when I knew that you probably thought I was dead…”

As soon as he sees the agent turned away from them, moving Bremer down the road, he leans down and kisses Scully hard, fiercely. He's crying again, tears dripping down his face, and he kisses her again and again, rests his forehead against hers. “I don't care,” he breathes, cupping her face in his hands. “I don't care that you couldn't call me… Scully, you're _here_. I thought I'd lost you.”

She sniffles. She leans up to kiss his forehead, her hands clutching at his hair, his shirt. “I didn't want you to have to go through that,” she whispers. “I wanted you to know I was okay.”

“It's okay,” he whispers back. “It doesn't matter now.” He brushes a thumb over her lower lip, wipes a tear out of her eye. Smiles at her, kisses her cheek again, her temple, and presses his nose to her hair. He doesn't ever want to let her go.

“You could've gotten yourself killed,” she mutters furiously, cinching her arms tight around his waist, her cheek to his chest. “Jesus Christ, Mulder, that man had a gun to your head… and you were trying to bargain with Bremer to let me go…”

“Didn't have a choice.” He buries his fingers in her hair, holding her tight.

“You're an idiot, Mulder,” she says, and it sounds like she's about to cry, too.

They stand there for a long time, until Skinner finds them and guides them back to a car. He gives Scully a hug before letting them into the backseat. He doesn't say a word to Mulder about why he's here, or the fact that he probably tracked him here, but whatever Skinner is feeling about this whole situation, Mulder isn't going to complain. Skinner keeping tabs on him has probably saved them both.

They sit together in the back, silently. Scully uses a small first aid kit to put ointment and Band-Aids on his scraped cheek, her fingers cool on his cheek. When she's finished, she sags into his side, her head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around her. They curl together in a desperate sort of way, their bodies weak with relief.

\---

Skinner takes them to a motel near Philadelphia. “We're going to sort things out,” he tells them, “think about getting you two to somewhere safe until things calm down, but I want you two to get some rest. You've been through a lot.”

They don't argue. Of course they don't argue. They go to the front desk and get one room. Scully clasps his hand in hers and passes the card Skinner had given them across the counter. They get a room quickly and slip down the breezeway to their room, Scully unlocking the door with her free hand. Mulder just holds onto her other hand, his fingers locked with hers. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off, and he's left with a sense of shock. Of shock and gratefulness and patched grief; he cannot believe she is here, and he's unbelievably thankful, but he feels like grief is still pushed in the back of his throat, like he hasn't shaken off the way he felt curled up on his bathroom floor the night before.

He lifts her hand as they slip into the room, pressing his lips to her bruised knuckles; she turns towards him and meets his eyes, her own wide and somber. He holds her gaze, his nose pressed in the space between her fingers. He feels his eyes growing damp.

She slips closer, rising on tiptoes to slip her arms around his neck. She kisses his cheek gently, clinging to him tight. “Come here,” she whispers, taking his hand.

They fall together onto the bed. She pulls him against her, his head falling to her shoulder, her arms around him. He seizes a handful of her shirt and doesn't let go. He is suddenly embarrassed of the night before, the way he clung to her t-shirt, cried helplessly on the bathroom; the grief was horrible, and he's sure Scully can understand that kind of grief—she’s experienced some form of his death more than once now—but it feels silly now, now that she is here and she was all right the whole time. He feels as if he should've known that she was okay, should've come for her sooner. He bends his head, lifting her hand from where it clutches at his side and kisses her bruised wrist. “I'm sorry, Scully,” he whispers, not for the first time. “They never would've taken you if it hadn't been for me.”

“Mulder, I was deep in the building when Bremer found me. He yanked me out the back just before the bomb went out. If I hadn't run into him, I probably still would've been inside when the bomb went off,” she says, and he shudders. She kisses the top of his head. “It doesn't matter,” she murmurs. “It’s not anyone's fault, okay? It was not your fault.”

“I didn't know what I was going to do,” he says, and he feels like he is going to cry again. “If I lost you… I didn't know what I would do.”

“I know. I know.” She presses her lips to his forehead, her hand heavy on the back of his neck. “I'm so sorry you had to go through that.” He sniffles, wiping his eyes, and presses his face into the side of her neck. She rubs a hand up and down his back. “Mulder,” she whispers, “I… I was worried when I saw you… with that man with the gun to your head… I thought he was going to shoot you. You… Mulder, why were you _there_?”

“I had to find them,” he mumbles into her skin. “I-I had to, Scully. I didn't have a choice.”

She makes a choked sound, her fingers knotted in his hair. “Oh, Mulder,” she whispers. “Oh, Mulder, I…”

“I'm sorry,” he blurts, interrupting her. He pulls away to meet her eyes, lets her wipe the tears from his cheeks. “I'm sorry, Scully, I just… I didn't know what else to do. I thought they'd killed you, and I-I couldn't stand it.”

“It's okay,” she whispers. “Mulder, I don't know that I would've done much better if I'd been in your place. I-it's just…” She bites her lower lip, wiping tears from his eyes again. “I don't want you to get yourself killed for me, okay?” she says gently. “If… if anything ever happens to me… I don't want you to get killed on some crazed revenge quest, okay?” He squeezes his eyes shut instinctively—the potential reality of everything that has happened is still too fresh, he can still remember what it feels like to lose her—and she presses her forehead to hers. “If anything ever happens to me…” she starts again, unsteady, “I want you to be okay.”

“Scully,” he says with a self-deprecating little chuckle. “Scully, please, don't talk about anything happening to you, okay? I-I can't go through that again.”

“Okay, okay.” She knots her fingers with his and squeezes, rubbing his knuckles with her thumb. “Just… please,” she whispers. “Please, try to promise me, Mulder.”

“I'll try,” he says, sniffling. He wipes his eyes, and then hers. “I'll try to promise, but Scully, I… I don't want to think about losing you. Not after this. I… I thought I'd never see you again.”

“Mulder, listen to me.” She presses a hand to his jaw, making him look at her. “You will never lose me,” she says solemnly. “Not if I can help it. I'm not going anywhere.”

He shuts his eyes again, brimming over with tears. He leans over and kisses her softly, her lips wet with tears. “I love you,” he whispers. “So much, Scully. Love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” she says, her voice thick. She leans her head against his. “Thanks for coming for me.”

“Always,” he tells her.

She curls up in his arms, and he holds her tight. He never wants to let go.

\---

In the morning, Skinner arrives to escort them to some kind of safe house. They go together, their fingers intertwined between them. They're together and they're going to stay together, until this is all over.  


End file.
